Thin Lines Between Truth and Lies
by sunday nights
Summary: Collab Fic: Chuck learns the devastating truth about his father's death; he also realizes he isn't safe either. When he asks the one person he can't ask for help, he'll discover things that will change who he is forever. CB. Post 2.14.
1. Truth

Title: Thin Lines Between Truth and Lies

Authors: sunday nights (Michelle) and BookCaseGirl (Abby)

Rating: PG-13; for language and sexual content

Summary: Chuck finds out the devastating truth about his father's death. When he learns that he isn't safe either, he must resort to asking the one person he can't let himself ask for help. He'll discover things about her, his friends, his enemies, and himself, that'll forever change the way he looks at life. Chuck/Blair, various other pairings. Set after 2.14.

Author's Note: This is a collaboration fic! Between yours truly (Michelle) and hers truly (Abby). We'll be alternating chapters (I've got odds, she's got evens), so the style may change from chapter to chapter. We hope you enjoy, and we really love reviews! (:

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**I. Truth**

Lately, it had become another task on his checklist. To lug his inebriated uncle home from bars was just the same as waking up, brushing his teeth, putting on a scarf, and getting a ride to school.

He didn't mind, usually. After all, Jack was the only person he had. Misty was gone, Bart was gone, so Chuck settled with what he had left. Even if that person was a low-life alcoholic who was doing more damage to Bass Industries than good.

He shivered in the brisk weather of that late February night; the wind hissed and squealed, blowing up littered pieces of trash around on the streets.

Where had Jack told him he was going to be? Oh, yes, the bar on eighth.

A chill ran through him as the breeze blew into his coat, forcing him to wrap his scarf tighter. His ears picked up the distant sound of glass crashing, and he sighed deeply. Not only had his uncle been drinking daily, he had also gotten into the habit of getting into fights with men half his age and twice his weight. It was as if he was asking for death. But Chuck couldn't let that happen, so he picked up his pace.

He slid into the dimly lit, fully-packed bar, filled to the brim with drunken men and women, wobbling around, toppling onto chairs. He groaned inwardly, couldn't Jack at least have chosen a nicer, upper-class bar to go to? Oh right, he couldn't, he'd been kicked out of every single one.

"Dammit," Chuck swore as an overweight man crashed into him, knocking him into another man on a barstool.

"What did you say to me?" the obviously drunk-out-his-mind man asked, standing up, knocking the stool onto the ground.

"Fuck off," Chuck instructed, stalking away from him. The worst part of playing Jack's knight in shining armor was having to deal with the annoying and imbecilic drunks that either tried to pick a fight or hit on him. And the latter came from both genders.

A group of men crowded into a loose circle around a brawl that seemed to be going down in the center of the bar. The bartender whistled, looking away, pretending not to notice the chanting and war cries that were occurring.

Chuck picked out his uncle from the massive group of people; Jack, as usual, was in the very center, letting his fists fly at what could only be a professional wrestler.

"Oh, shit," Chuck cursed, rubbing his forehead. Somehow, Jack getting involved in these fights usually ended up with Chuck in the middle, trying to ward off fists and feet while attempting to pull his completely intoxicated, beat up uncle away.

"Chu-uck!" Jack called, just as the wrestler let a bone-crunching blow to his nose. His nose started dripping blood, but Jack let out a cackle, "That all you got?"

The wrestler looked furious, as if Jack's question had been the biggest insult in the world, "You better watch it, asshole," he snarled, punching his gut.

"No, you better watch it," Jack replied, pulling his foot back to release a perfect shot into his groin. But the wrestler beat him to it, grabbing his foot and throwing him onto the grimy bar floor.

"Fuck!" Jack screamed hysterically, blood spurting from his nose and a gash forming in his arm.

Chuck let out a sigh; he'd feel a little more affected by the entire scene if the same events hadn't been occurring for the past month. Ever since Bart died, night would fall, Chuck would get a phone call, letting him know where Jack was at. Chuck would go to the bar, find Jack in the midst of a fight, always the underdog, always losing, and Chuck would always have to drag him out.

"Jack, get the hell out of there," Chuck shouted through the monotonously chanting crowd, "Fight! Fight! Fight!"

Jack whipped his head around, staring at Chuck for a long second, before falling to the floor, screaming, "Bart! Bartholomew! Bart!"

Chuck smacked his head into his palm; every time Jack was drunk, Chuck would have to explain that Bart was killed in a car accident. As if it didn't pain him enough to face the facts himself. But Jack, hysterical, would never believe him, always shouting his brother's name, waving a fist at the sky.

Chuck weaved his way through, not bothering to apologize for shoving people to the side, "Jack, we're leaving."

Then the drunk wrestler let out a chicken squawk. It was so juvenile, so first-grade, but somehow it riled Jack enough to charge back at him.

Chuck ran in after Jack, letting curses fly as he did, "Shit, Jack! Get the fuck back here. You're going to get the shit beat out of you; just leave!"

But Jack being the hot-headed, stubborn, intoxicated man that he was, brought his fists up again, but the wrestler was too quick, pounding into his face before he could do any damage himself. He collapsed to the floor.

Chuck grabbed his arm, lugging him across the splintered hardwood floor, dragging him as far away from the crowd as he could.

"What the hell are you thinking? You can't make me come out here every fucking night!" Chuck hissed, slapping Jack's face, snapping him back into consciousness.

"Chuck?" Jack murmured sleepily, letting himself lay flat on the cold, hard surface of the New York City sidewalk.

"I've got better things to do than drag my shit-faced uncle out of a bar," Chuck spat, pulling a cigarette out of his pocket. It wasn't strong enough, but it'd have to do considering the situation.

He lit up, inhaling the smoke deep into his lungs, "Besides, you never even win the fights. If you'd at least choose someone you could actually beat…"

"They cheat," Jack snapped, pulling his head up a slight millimeter of the pavement, "They take fucking steroids."

"Oh, yeah, Jack, they load up on steroids so they can beat some drunk asshole at a bar," Chuck laughed darkly, "I'm sure that's their goal in life."

Jack didn't see humor in the situation, "Exactly."

Jack shivered, too, as the wind chilled his scantily-clad body. His shirt was torn, his jacket missing, and his right pant leg was ripped from the knee downwards. Chuck choked out another sardonic, coughing laugh, "And you're ruining all of your clothes."

Jack rolled over, eyes hardening in the darkness of the street, "If I could win a damn fight―" He cut himself off, leaning over the edge of the sidewalk to vomit out the contents of his stomach.

Chuck let out a groan, "You're disgusting."

And Jack let out a hysterical cackle, "You sound like Bart! Bart, where are you?" he called, rolling again, back towards the entrance of the bar.

"I'm calling the limo, you keep quiet before you get both of us killed," Chuck instructed pulling his cell phone out.

"Who're you going to call?" Jack asked, smiling crazily, "Bart? Bart'll pick us up, I bet you."

Chuck felt a grim expression take over his face, setting his mouth into a straight line, "I have to explain this to you every night. Bart, is my father. Bart is dead. Bart died in a car crash."

Jack stared at Chuck as if he was speaking Chinese. Then he giggled, "No, he's not. Bart told me he was fine. Last night, he was in my house."

Chuck sighed, "You say this every day. I'm telling you, my father is dead. As in not alive, as in buried, as in a cemetery," he said, punching numbers into his phone.

"Bart always said if he died, he'd certainly go to Hell," Jack muttered, "Is he in Hell?"

"I don't know!" Chuck said exasperated. He hated his drunken uncle, if not before, especially now, "I'm sure he's exactly where he wants to be."

"That would be Bart Bass," Jack agreed, head bobbing to the rhythmic thumping of the music inside, "He gets every little damn thing he wants."

Chuck nodded his head, partly in agreement, partly just to get Jack to shut up, but he continued on.

"Where is he, if not in Hell?" Jack asked, scratching his head, stumbling to his feet, attempting to walk, but failing miserably.

"He's dead, Jack. There was a car accident," Chuck explained, feeling as if his life was permanently on repeat setting, forcing him to reiterate every single word he said.

"A car accident," Jack replied, staring intently at the neon flashing sign above Chuck's shoulder, "A car accident."

"Yes, Jack, a car accident," Chuck rolled his eyes. A four-year-old seemed to be more literate than Jack was at the moment.

"How did he get in a car accident?" Jack asked, pulling at his hair, crawling closer to Chuck's feet.

Chuck snapped his cell phone shut, "What do you mean, how did he get into a car accident? Another car hit his car. What the fuck are you saying, you moronic idiot?" Chuck growled; Jack's incessant question-and-answer session was starting to annoy the hell out of him, and it was also starting to make unwanted memories flood back to him, washing over him.

"Who hit him?" Jack wondered, wandering into the road, lying down.

"Get the hell out of the road," Chuck instructed, "And I don't know. Someone. They hit him then ran. They couldn't tell. My PI isn't much help, either."

Chuck felt odd telling someone this; he hadn't told anyone that he was trying to get proof that his father had been hit, not that the driver had swerved. He was positive that they were victims of a hit-and-run. A fatal hit-and-run.

"I know who hit him," Jack answered, standing up from the road, just in time, as a car whizzed by, making the hairs on the back of Chuck's neck stand on end.

"Who?" Chuck asked, drawing close to Jack, listening intently, hoping he wasn't lying, hoping it wasn't some kind of drunken babble, hoping for a clue, a sign, anything.

Jack didn't respond, simply falling back onto the cool, hard pavement, laughing so hard his face turned a shade of purple.

TBC

**A/N: So this is a try, a try at a collab fic, we're both not sure how it'll turn out. I, personally, am pretty satisfied with this first chapter, but I'm not sure. Let me know!**


	2. White Lie

Title: Thin Lines Between Truth and Lies

Authors: sunday nights (Michelle) and BookCaseGirl (Abby)

Rating: PG-13; for language and sexual content

Summary: Chuck finds out the devestating truth about his father's death. When he learns that he isn't safe either, he must resort to asking the one person he can't let himself ask for help. He'll discover things about her, his friends, his enemies, and himself, that'll forever change the way he looks at life. Chuck/Blair, various other pairings. Set after 2.14.

Author's Note: Different format from the last chapter. Well, I'm a different person! But I think that Michelle and I tend to think alike sometimes, so I'm hoping that because of that, this fic will be great! (:

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**II. White Lie**

All he was doing was telling a white lie. It didn't matter and his dear old nephew would never have to find out about it. Right?

_Right, _he assured himself with a deep breath.

He must have drifted out of consciousness, because before he knew it, he was being dragged on the hard and rough concrete of the ground by Chuck Bass. He coughed a little, feeling bile rise in his throat.

Jack should have been immune to the liquor by now. All true Bass men became resistant towards booze after the first seven drinks or so. Not him, though. Jack was the baby of the Bass family. He was always so coddled and never trusted with anything big.

That was why he'd done it. Bart never listened. He didn't understand. The stupid old man couldn't get it through his thick skull that Jack had changed; he was a different person now, who was more responsible.

Until that night. He'd lost it. Talking to Bart... And then the bastard who called himself his brother just crawled into the car, mumbling something about Lily as he fell in. Jack had kicked the car with violent anger rushing through his veins and then the sleek black limo sped off into the dark.

After several drinks that night, he had called his _own_ PI and asked about the location of brother dearest. Apparently he was pulled over at a discreet location 'pondering his thoughts.' Jack had cackled with turpitude when he found out how easy it would be.

When he'd seen the entire picture laid out before him later, however, he didn't feel as powerful and full of vengeance. He felt guilt and sadness at the scene before him; flames curled through the air, mixing with a dismally gray smog. Scraps of metal were scattered everywhere, crumpled as if they were paper.

This entire layout was in the middle of Fifth Avenue, nonetheless. Leave it to the Bass family to let one of its members go out in style. Right in the middle of town.

Jack had crumbled just like the metal, though. He'd gone straight back to Australia, to immerse himself in work for as long was possible. Tried to avoid the chore of coming back to what was left of his 'family' for as long as possible with gin and brandy. Lots and lots of gin and brandy.

He was still taking these two drinks as a combined medicine of denial and parry. They helped. Granted, all the other men in his family were more drawn to scotch. He found that particular liquor repulsive and disgusting.

Thus went his first sober night of thinking in a limo with Chuck Bass.

**********

He was getting rather sick of this whole run-around with Jack. He was his uncle, a grown man who should have been able to take care of himself. Hell, Chuck was only nineteen, and he was taking care of himself.

Alright, so this was contrary to popular belief. But _he_ knew what taking care of himself was, and he'd be damned if he wasn't doing it.

But this process of moving on and caring for himself did not come fully equipped with constantly drunk uncle. He didn't factor into the equation, and Chuck wished he would just be rid of the asshole already.

The man was a thorn in his side with all the bar fights he got into. Chuck's attorneys must have been thrilled, though. They were getting a sizable amount of income from the family account now because of the various lawsuits from different drinking establishments.

He saw the familiar bright lights of The Palace and straightened up in his seat to look at the doorway. Sure enough, there was Serena. And there _she_ was. Glued to her 'bestie's' side as always. They were inseparable and it killed him inside sometimes. Especially on nights like this.

She looked beautiful, as always. It was a given that she be beautiful. The gene was permanently etched into her bloodline. Waldorfs were meant to be ethereal and classic beauties. It was a fact of life.

Her curly auburn hair was flowing down her back and she wore a necklace. His face reddening with embarrassment at what he was doing, he strained to scope out what type of necklace she was donning on her neck. It wasn't his; she never wore his anymore.

She hated him.

And he hated her. But then why was he torturing himself by looking at her constantly? And why was _she _torturing _him _by being everywhere that he was at the exact time that he was there?

Maybe their relationship, or lack thereof, was just that fucked up.

**********

"Come on, shit head!" He was jolted awake by a young boy's yells of stern decree. Then he felt the pounding as there were several sharp blows to his left shoulder and he got up immediately. The hits ceased and he looked around.

They were still in the limo. Chuck was staring down at him with frantic eyes that were rimmed in red. He was dragged once again out of the car and hit by a gush of the frigidly biting winter air. His coat had long since been abandoned because of blood stains and its overall tattered quality.

Now they were up in his new hotel room. Was he really going in and out that fast? Maybe it was time for a program...Or just more than an hour and a half of sleep.

The sheets of the bed were pristine and crisp. He knew this because his face had been shoved into them by his nephew's hand. He'd inhaled instantaneously and there was a scent of fabric softener that was oddly comforting.

The last thing he had any memory of was a door slamming angrily and a young woman's voice coming from outside the door, accompanied by Chuck's.

TBC


	3. Fib

Title: Thin Lines Between Truth and Lies

Authors: sunday nights (Michelle) and BookCaseGirl (Abby)

Rating: PG-13; for language and sexual content

Summary: Chuck finds out the devastating truth about his father's death. When he learns that he isn't safe either, he must resort to asking the one person he can't let himself ask for help. He'll discover things about her, his friends, his enemies, and himself, that'll forever change the way he looks at life. Chuck/Blair, various other pairings. Set after 2.14.

Author's Note: Alright, it's Michelle here. As in sunday nights. Yeah, I'm chapter 3, because like I said, I'm odds. Reviews are pretty unsatisfactory right now, but thank you to _BrittyKay247, ForeverlovinGG, addisonkarev, dew on roses_, and _JoJo.x_ for their wonderful reviews. They keep us writing! The beginning section is written by Abby (up to the itinerary line, which by the way is from the old 90210), but the rest is all by me.

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**III. Fib**

"May I help you, Waldorf?" he asked curtly when he came outside, only to meet her once again.

"I'll tell you how you can help me. You can help me by keeping your goddamn uncle under control! Or better yet, in an assisted living home! Don't you realize what a disgrace he is? Not only to us, meaning Serena and I, but―"

"Shut the fuck up," he said in an eerily calm tone. There was an underlying twinge of exhaustion that was so fine only she could detect it. "I'm not in the mood for one of your bitch rants right now, Blair. It's three A.M. for Christ's sake."

"Go to hell," she spat, an evil and menacing look accompanying her terrifying-to-plebeian-minions venomous tone.

She walked out immediately after that, stomping like the five-year-old that she was.

Chuck screwed his sandpaper dry eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose, letting out a possibly over-dramatic sigh.

After he was sure she'd left, he opened his eyes and stared at the floor where her feet had just been. He felt another sigh slip through his lips and then the common vacant look he often wore slipped over his eyes again.

"Oh, believe me," he murmured to himself, referring to her suggestion, "That is definitely...on the itinerary."

**…**

Jack awoke with a start, rubbing his crusted-over, barely opened eyes until he finally regained sight. The sheets that had seemed so pristine and proper last night seemed to be nothing but a memory now, considering they were soiled with his vomit and other bodily fluids. Gross.

He strained to remember the previous night; it wasn't possible he'd allowed one of his secrets to slip, was it?

He shuddered in remembrance of the swirling flames, dancing high into the sky, the leftover metal pieces of the car squealing in the fight against the fire, and his own blood sibling, howling into the emptiness of the night.

It wasn't as if he didn't know what was going to happen as he ordered the driver to crash full on to his brother's car. He did. He just didn't know that he'd react this badly, often tossing in the darkness of the pitch-black night, screaming his name, pleading God to bring him back. What was once spite, was now only a dim flicker of sorrow, if that.

Bass Industries was in his name. That was the plan, wasn't it? Somehow, Jack always felt that awful twinge in the pit of his stomach as he stared at the emblem on his new desk: Jacob Bass, CEO. But he'd eventually force it back down. He was meant to be on top, even if it meant taking Bart down in the long run.

"God, Jack, you're finally up," he heard an eerily familiar voice hiss from the doorway. It couldn't be… he breathed a sigh of relief realizing he wasn't hallucinating; merely hearing the voice of his nephew, Chuck.

"Chuck, where the hell are we?" Jack asked, wincing at the throbbing headache from the extreme amounts of alcohol he had consumed the night prior. He cringed again as he felt a wound in his arm. Memories of fighting flew back to him as he settled back into the soiled sheets.

"My hotel room," Chuck grimaced, "At least, it used to be, before you fucked the whole place up. I'll probably get kicked out of my own hotel," Chuck groaned.

"Your hotel?" Jack asked incredulously. Even after three months, Chuck refused to believe that any part of Bass Industries was Jack's, even though, legally, all of it belonged to Jack. "I believe it's my hotel."

"You think it actually belongs to you? When I'm legal," Chuck said, motioning the air to represent the company that was currently in Jack's possession, "all of this is going to be mine. Don't you remember? Or were you too drunk when the will was read? My father's only wish after I gain the position of CEO of Bass Industries is that you be in a high-ranked position. However, due to your terrible work ethic, it's highly possible that I'll downgrade you."

Jack scowled at his nephew. It seemed that, whenever he could, Chuck chose to flaunt the fact that Bass Enterprises only belonged to Jack for a certain period of time, "Well, until that time comes, I'm your legal guardian, Bass Industries is mine, and you have to do what I tell you to."

Chuck smirked, "Whatever you say, Jack."

And that shivering feeling ran up Jack's spine, forcing him to tremble, suddenly realizing how similar Chuck was to his father. Not only was the guilt of his murder inescapable, he now had his brother's, the victim's, son reminding him of every crimson colored flame, every scratching clang, and every whimper from that one fateful night.

…

Chuck hated his uncle. More than he hated Blair, more than he hated himself, more than he hated anyone in the world.

His uncle, his conceited and self-absorbed uncle, was the reason he was here. His uncle, though often filled with unkept promises, seemed to have suddenly taken interest in the company. It could have been because of Chuck's incessant mocking about his soon-to-come ownership of the company, or it could have been just because Jack wanted to look good in public. Whatever the reason, Chuck was here now, standing uncomfortably in a room filled to the brim with socialites and business moguls.

Worst of all, _she_ was here in all her glorious splendor and standing before him, dressed royally in a beautiful grey gown, with a Duke clutched on one arm. It would have been easier if the duke was hideously ugly or had purple hair; but no, he was prim, proper, and everything Blair looked for in a man. Chuck groaned; had he really been convinced by his uncle to attend this event?

"Hello," the Duke greeted, with Blair close behind avoiding all eye contact, looking as if she was there involuntarily.

"Nice to meet you," Chuck responded, feigning politeness, sticking his hand out, returning the man's firm handshake. "And you are?" he asked, motioning towards Blair.

Blair shot him a hateful scowl, "Blair Waldorf," she answered, refusing to give him the satisfaction. The Duke gave them both strange looks, then brushed it off, ushering Blair towards the dance floor.

No, he didn't hate his uncle anymore. It was too difficult to hate him when he was so busy focusing all his hatred on the raven-haired beauty spinning in the arms of the golden-locked Duke in the middle of the ballroom floor. He hated how gorgeous she was, even with an unhappy pout upon her lips. He hated how stunning she looked, wearing a sparkling diamond necklace that was clearly not from him. He hated the tumultuous turning in his stomach, so uncomfortable he had to look away from her before the pain grew any stronger.

"A dance?" he asked politely to the girl standing next to him; she looked friendly enough. She looked innocent enough to put out to Chuck's easy charm. A good fuck was what he needed tonight, and lucky for her, she was that girl.

She giggled; it was a tinkling, embarrassed laugh. It was nothing like Blair's and he was thankful for that. He held out his hand, leading her onto the floor, wrapping an arm firmly around her waist and enclosing one hand around hers, he twirled her, letting the movements erase Blair's face from his memory.

And it worked, at least for the time being. And it would have worked for the rest of the night if Blair hadn't spun so damn close to him, so close he could smell her delicious perfume wafting from her, so close he could see the amber flecks in her eyes; so close, so close.

**…**

Chuck groaned lazily from his spot on the bed, turning over groggily. Oh, shit, the girl from the banquet was lying naked in his bed. Did he really sleep with her? Getting a good look at her in the light, he suddenly realized how utterly unattractive she was. He sighed again. It was easier to ditch the girl when he rented out a hotel room. However, they were in his suite, so he couldn't very well leave his own room. So he let her sleep.

He opened the blinds, bracing himself for the painful sunlight, but was greeted by blackness. It was still night? That meant…

He groaned again. He snatched up his phone, sliding it open, only to reveal four missed calls. From Jack. Did he really get into a fight again? It was going to be a matter of time before the board of Bass Industries found out and fired him from his job. Clearly Jack wasn't serious about it if he was willing to risk it like he did every night.

_Chuck? It's your uncle Jack! Going to a bar on the corner of Lex and something. You should find it pretty easily. Bye!_

It was only the first message and Jack sounded a little too happy to have been sober. He muttered curses at Jack under his breath, but they were no use. He still knew he had to save Jack. No matter how much he hated him, he was still his blood uncle, and there was nothing he could do about it.

As he called his limo, he listened to the other messages:

_Chuck! They told me to call someone because apparently I'm getting kicked out, whatever that is. So I called you! Get the limo, I need a ride home._

_Chuck. Where are you? Where are you? Bart. Where are you?_

The last message, however, consisted of only loud, thunderous breathing and shouts in the background. Worriedly, Chuck called his limo driver again to pick up the pace. As he slid into the car uneasily, he looked around, anxious to get to the bar.

From three blocks away, Chuck could hear sirens squealing, horns honking, and he could see the bright blue and red lights flashing into the darkness of the night. His stomach sank as he realized, at once that he was finally too late.

TBC


	4. Tragedy

Title: Thin Lines Between Truth and Lies

Authors: sunday nights (Michelle) and BookCaseGirl (Abby)

Rating: PG-13; for language and sexual content

Summary: Chuck finds out the devastating truth about his father's death. When he learns that he isn't safe either, he must resort to asking the one person he can't let himself ask for help. He'll discover things about her, his friends, his enemies, and himself, that'll forever change the way he looks at life. Chuck/Blair, various other pairings. Set after 2.14.

Author's Note: Alrighty....I have no clue if this will make sense or not. Let's give it a shot :). Yeah, I just rhymed...Is that a crime? Okay, creepiness. Gotta stop. hah. Oh, this is Abby, by the way. Actually it's Michelle telling everyone it's Abby, but whatever.

* * *

**IV. Tragedy**

Chuck let out a sigh as his hand pushed through the slightly oil tendrils of hair on his head. He yanked at the ends, letting out a low and exasperated grunt as his eyes closed tightly. The boy was fighting off a goddamn panic attack and he didn't have his Valium with him.

He pushed through the mob of people and bit his hand to keep from crying out at the sight that was supposed to be his uncle. He turned away abruptly and pulled the hand out of his mouth. There were small spots of blood and he licked his wound before turning around to better survey the scene.

"Sir, sir. I'm going to have to ask you to step away, sir," said a short and plump man who looked no younger than sixty five. His head was balding severely, and the few strands of hair that remained were combed over. His tired-looking baggy gray eyes looked concerned as he pushed Chuck away from the stretcher.

"What the _fuck_?" Chuck screamed. "I'm his _nephew!_ I'm Chuck _Bass_!" he yelled, voice booming and causing his entire body to shake.

"Please, step off to the side. We can chat, there, dear boy," the man said quietly, in a tone that sounded like an attempt at soothing.

"Spare me. I don't want your pity," he spat at the poor man. The investigator actually looked like Cyrus; he had similar mannerisms as well. But his eyes weren't bright enough, cheeks not rosy enough. It looked as if he had been through pain that not one other soul on the planet knew of.

"Now, Mr. Bass. You say the man was your uncle, correct?"

"_Is._ He _is_ my uncle. I swear to God, if you tell me that he's dead I will personally rip you to shreds," Chuck snarled out.

"He's not dead. Yet, young man. He is lucky that a passer-by thought to call nine-one-one. There was barely a thread of life that he was hanging on to." The man looked reminiscent almost to the point of longing as he stared at Jack's body.

"Just tell me his condition," Chuck murmured softly. He was losing energy; losing the fighting quality that had been burning inside of him merely moments ago.

"He's alive, fairly well. Better than he should be. The man is very lucky he's not in a coma," the investigator said.

"I'm sorry, what did you say your name was again?" Chuck asked, turning back to look the old man in the eyes.

"Chief Tom Baizen," he replied, a wan smile spreading across his face as he held out his hand.

"Pleasure to meet you," he rasped out in reply. There was a wave of shock coursing through him, but he couldn't let it show. He couldn't allow who he assumed would soon become an enemy to him to see his weak spots, to know his every emotion and what set him off.

"You too, my boy," his voice began to boom and he stood, looking around the scene and patting his belly.

"So, am I able to take Mr. Bass home now, Chief?" Chuck asked politely. Sure, there wasn't a polite bone in his body, but he couldn't let anything slip.

"The ambulance is taking him to St. Lauren's hospital over on Sixth," the Chief replied, nodding to the flashing lights that were slowly dimming.

"Thank you," Chuck muttered as he briskly strode over to the large truck and hopped in, following the portable bed that held Jack.

**********

Blair jolted awake with a start. It was only four in the morning, she still had three hours before she needed to be up and running. Why get up now?

Her body flopped back onto the bed and she heaved a small, delicate sigh as she pulled her comforter up to her nose in thought. She studied the ceiling and noticed a small flaw that Dorota would need to be notified about immediately. Blair Waldorf had not one flaw in any part of her life, least of all, the ceiling of her room.

A quiet ding shook her out of her reverie and she looked around as she sat up. The room was dark, all except for a dim glow coming from the cellphone on her bedside table. It read "one new message" and she picked it up, intrigued.

"You have one unheard message," the methodical and droning female voice says in her ear. "Two forty six AM."

Then the real party began as she heard a voice she had not expected to hear for another five weeks, at least.

"Blair...Uh, look. Jack's in the hospital and I feel like shit. Okay, I don't even know why I called, just forget it. Bye," Chuck snapped as the line went dead.

She frantically pushed seven to listen to the message again. His voice sounded strained and upset. Something had happened, and it wasn't good.

But she wasn't supposed to be there for him anymore. He had wrecked his chances of having her as a comfort a long time ago. Then again, when did Blair Waldorf listen to anyone, least of all her own conscience?

When she felt that she looked decent enough to go to a hospital at four thirty five in the morning, Blair's shoes clacked on the sidewalk outside as she walked to hail a cab. Her fingers were punching in numbers on her phone, using any and every method she had to figure out where exactly Chuck and Jack were located.

"Serena," Blair began, "it's me. I didn't really think you would be up. After all, you're basically dead to the world when you fall asleep...Especially after a night like _we've_ had...Anyway, I just called to see if you knew about Jack. Call me, alright, S? I'm worried." Her brow furrowed as she hung up and stared out the raindrop-splattered window of the taxi.

There was one more number to try. It was the number that she had been nervously avoiding each time she scrolled past it. She knew that the dialing of said number was inevitable, but she was Blair. She would put it off for as long as possible. She would brush any uneasiness off and use other numbers until she received answers.

Finally, her finger lingered on the green button as 'Chuck Bass' was highlighted in blue on her phone's screen.

Her nail was touching the button, almost applying pressure, when the sound of 'Don't Stop the Music' filled the back of the cab. Serena. Scaring the shit out of her, as always. She pressed the 'hang up' button since she had been startled into dialing the number.

"S," Blair said, her breathing barely back to normal.

"B! Oh God, how are you? Is everything alright? I got your message and then I realized there were five other ones...I checked and Jack's in the hospital! Oh Christ, what happened, Blair?!" Serena's voice was screeching on the other end of the line and Blair cringed, holding the phone a good foot and a half away from her ear.

"Serena! Calm! I have no idea what's going on. Chuck called me and said Jack was in the hospital. He sounded frantic and very...Well, un-Chuck-like. I called you to find out where the hell the hospital is. The jerk couldn't use his goddamn brain and tell me any information about whereabouts." Blair twirled a lock of her curled hair around her finger as her foot tapped impatiently on the carpeted floor of the car.

"Oh, I guess it's St. Lau-" Blair flipped her phone closed. That was enough information for her to know where to go.

"Sixth avenue, please," she said kindly to the scruffy cab-driver, handing him forty dollars.

**********

Chuck paced outside the waiting room, his entire demeanor anything but relaxed. He could really go for a hit right now, but knew that that was totally inappropriate. Wait, when did Chuck Bass _do appropriate?_ Screw hospital policy; he was a _Bass man._

He pulled a rolled cigarette out of his pocket and slipped it into his mouth. Then he let himself fall into the nearest empty chair and lit up with an old flame-decorated lighter. A sigh fell through his lips with the tantalizingly calming essence of weed.

At some point, Chuck had obviously fallen asleep. Because the last thing that he remembered was the voice of Robin Roberts from 'Good Morning America' floating into his addled mind. It was a tape from about three years ago, and he still hadn't the tiniest fuck of an idea as to why the hospital chose to run it.

Now, though, the television was off. The blurred edges of his vision became slightly more clear and he stretched languidly, letting out a lazy yawn. Chuck sat up straighter and fixed his crooked shirt.

Looking around the room, he saw a familiar jacket – wait, make that three familiar jackets – and a cup of coffee with a red lipstick stain on it.

He turned to gaze at the other side of the roomy waiting area and saw a petite body curled up on the love seat. Chuck smiled dumbly, but then slapped his face with his hand.

Must have been lasting effects of the weed.

**A/N: **I had funnnnn with this chaaapppterrrrrrrr. Probably too much fun. I hope everyone liiiked ;). And I know that the whole 'Baizen' thing wasn't exactly resolved. It's coming my friends. Probably in chapter six, but it _is _coming! Thanks :)


	5. Comfort

**Title:** Thin Lines Between Truth and Lies

**Authors:** sunday nights (Michelle) and BookCaseGirl (Abby)

**Rating:** PG-13; for language and sexual content

**Summary:** Chuck finds out the devastating truth about his father's death. When he learns that he isn't safe either, he must resort to asking the one person he can't let himself ask for help. He'll discover things about her, his friends, his enemies, and himself, that'll forever change the way he looks at life. Chuck/Blair, various other pairings. Set after 2.14.

**Author's Note:** So I was re-reading this the other day (ehm, this is Abby) and I just got really excited and wanted to continue it. Mentioned it to Michelle, but she didn't want to do her chapter, hah. So, here I am with chapter five, and I hope that we're gonna be able to continue, 'cause I forgot how much fun this was (;

A quick note from Michelle: I'm not actually as lazy as Abby makes me out to be haha (: Kidding. Lovee herr.

* * *

**V. Comfort**

"Excuse me, Mr. Bass? Mr. Bass?" Chuck opened his eyes wearily. He hadn't even remembered falling asleep again. What he did remember was what happened before he must have dozed off. He'd seen...no, he hadn't. He had just thought – in his drug addled mind – that those things laying in the waiting room belonged to Blair. There was no way that they actually did.

Looking up, he noticed a man in a white doctor coat, with a stethoscope around his neck. He sat up a little straighter and regarded him with a businesslike attitude. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a certain girl with long and billowing curls. He put that from his mind for the time being, trying to concentrate on what the doctor was saying.

"...And he asked to see you. But, mind you, what I have just said is still very true. You have to be careful since his mind may not be in the right state right now."

"I'm sorry? Could you repeat that," Chuck said in a low tone. What was wrong with Jack? The man was his only family left; the small and incredibly vulnerable part of him didn't want to have to deal with another loss because he really wasn't sure he would be able to bear it this time.

"Well, your uncle...he, uh, he's been essentially muttering nonsense, to put it in laments terms. Something about 'I should have told him'? I'm not sure if you know anything about that, but I just said that you should be careful. People like this have often gone through something else in addition that was unknown to family members; something that is very scarring and difficult to talk about. I've referred a specialist from the psychiatric ward to visit with him tomorrow afternoon. Until then, I suggest you just sit there and answer any questions he may have. Keep the conversation light; we don't need a breakdown," the doctor seemed stern, as if he didn't trust Chuck to follow instructions. He already knew him well.

"I see. Well, you say that I can see him now? Which room?" Chuck asked, his voice raspy and still full of sleep. He cleared his throat and rubbed at the back of his neck – it was a nervous habit that he swore he got from Bart, not that he wanted a thing from that bastard.

"It's room four thirteen. But I suggest you wait...He's fallen asleep since we last spoke. It's best for people with possible psychiatric problems to rest – sometimes it can be helpful to them." Chuck rolled his eyes, but chose to comply. He didn't feel like dealing with Jack's drama queen tendencies right now anyway.

He would start with the easier things, like trying to get Blair the hell out. What had been wrong with him when he called her? Was he high? Oh wait, the answer to that was yes.

Five minutes later, he sat in the waiting room once again. This time, though, he vowed to not fall asleep. Too many dangerous things could happen when he was unconscious; he could slip and something could happen between himself and Blair. That was the last thing that he needed right then.

He looked over at her and watched her sleep peacefully for a few moments. Her lips were plump and plain, and her hair was still perfect and beautiful, just like the rest of her. Blair's face was so relaxed, he hated that he had to ruin that; but, he was a selfish man, they had established that long ago. And because he was selfish, he needed her out – for his own sake, of course.

"Blair," he murmured, now by her side. He took a chance and stroked the side of her arm. The brush sent shocks through him, just touching her soft and supple skin for the first time in so long. He lightly touched it again – he was addicted now, it was so beautiful and angelic; too hard not too give special attention to as much as possible.

He felt her jolt under his hand and instantly pulled away. His eyes hardened – he honestly hadn't known that they had gone soft – and he sat a good five feet away from her, trying his best to give her a good glare and a mental 'fuck off'.

**********

She woke up suddenly when she felt something – god, did she hope it was someone though. A certain someone – brush against the top of her right arm. Blair shifted violently and when her eyes adjusted, she saw a quickly-moving Chuck. Before she had the chance to stop him and tell him something, anything, to get him to stay right there and keep stroking her – making her feel so good – he was far, far away from her. The loss of heat and pressure from his strong hand left in its wake a trail of goosebumps and an empty feeling in her stomach.

He was the first to speak, and she had expected that. Chuck looked angry, and he tended to get the first [and often last] word when he was pissed off. His eyes exuded resentment and something that looked a hell of a lot like sadness and regret, but it looked like he was trying to mask that as best as possible.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he spat in a level tone. That meant he was worse than she had thought. When his voice was at one decibel – low – it was never good for whoever was speaking with him. It meant his anger was right there, boiling beneath the surface of every word, and with every further action that was taken and syllable that was spoken, he would get closer to an eruption.

She didn't care today. Let him go ape-shit on her, she could handle it. It was what she was there for, after all. Though there were times when Blair didn't want to be – with every minuscule fiber of her existence – she always was. It was what she did, he was who she lived for.

"You called me," she stated simply, staring back at him with innocent eyes. She watched the fire flare up in his eyes, and then simmer briefly.

"Why did you come?" Chuck shot back instantaneously, ignoring the question that was so obviously hidden in her statement.

"Because, Chuck. You called, and you sounded upset. And I, being the stupid masochist that I am, decided to bite and see what was up." She sighed casually and looked out the window of the waiting room. Her eyes flitted to the open door, and she silently prayed that anyone who walked by wouldn't be overly alarmed by the yelling that would soon come – it would all be Chuck; she refused to yell – from the room.

"Go to hell," he growled out, his lips sneering. She felt a sliver of anger shoot up from her gut and into her mouth, but she swallowed, trying to quench the flames that were threatening to come out.

"Oh, you'll take me with you then?" she quipped, trying to keep things light. The lighter the conversation was and the more banter that came out of it, the more likely the chance was that she would come out unscathed and even – possibly – have Chuck a little better as well.

**********

After her last little attempt at making the conversation normal, he could only stare at her, his eyes smarting with the pangs of sadness and frustration and being unable to break her.

He chose a different tactic then, though. Chuck made a solid effort to change his demeanor – he was like a chameleon in that way, always being able to switch his attitude to fit his needs.

"Please Blair, just leave. Leave me alone," he said quietly, eyes begging.

She didn't buy it, he could already tell. Damn, he thought bitterly.

"Look, Chuck," she began, her eyes soft and concerned. "I understand that you think you may not want me here. But I want to be here-" she visibly gulped and he swore he saw a glassy sheen of tears being blinked back. "-and I know that there is a part of you that wants me here, too." Her voice was wobbly and thick, and then he broke.

A tear – he hadn't even known of the damn thing's existence – slid down his cheek and he moved closer to her, only by one chair. One small step at a time worked just fine for him. He glanced up at her through hooded eyes and she nodded confirming his thoughts. She was here for him, and she wouldn't leave this time, no matter how hard he tried.

It was her turn to take the initiative, and thankfully for him, she stood up and walked over to him, getting down on both knees and reaching up to envelop him in her arms. He stayed stiff – there was that part of him that still refused to let her be right – but then relaxed, tired of trying to fight. Chuck was allowed to be weak, because Blair let him. She let him cry and wail away, and she always made it better.

**About an hour and a half later...**

He felt his phone vibrate against his thigh and looked down at Blair, who was still clutching – somewhat desperately – at his calves and had since fallen asleep. He looked at the lit-up screen, and it read 'Bill', his private investigator. He'd forgotten about that phone call, as well. Perhaps he should go under the influence more often, since it seemed he made infinitely better decisions that positively affected him when he was high or drunk.

"Chuck Bass," he whispered, and his hand somehow – he blamed it on the independent brain it seemed to have developed recently – found it's way onto the top of Blair's head and stroked her hair gently.

"I found what you needed," Bill was – and always had been – a straight down to business type of guy, and Chuck was very thankful for that trait that he possessed.

"Great," he said dreamily, lost in the soft breaths that were escaping from Blair's mouth. Get a grip, Bass. He knew this would have to end at some point. Happiness could never last for him; it was just against the rules.

He went back to his formal voice then, his hand stopping its movements on Blair's head and just resting there – albeit comfortably. The dammit was implied here, of course. He just couldn't be like this, they couldn't. It wasn't what they did. This would wreck everything, nothing would ever be the same.

"I'm at the St. Lauren's hospital. Meet me down in the lobby in ten minutes," he said, and then closed the phone.

This would be an interesting and eventful evening.

TBC


End file.
